Two Seasons of One Flâneur
by Ireth Melwasul
Summary: Based on the XIX century French figure, Diaval considers himself to be a modern flâneur. He's fine with his common writer lifestyle until he sees someone worthy of turning him into a poet; turns out she's just like him. Maleval AU. One shot.


He considered himself the modern version of the old French flâneur, he used his panoramic vision of society as an inspiration for his writing. He was a detached observer, a lonely man… His days were spent strolling down the streets, eavesdropping on someone else's conversations and taking pictures; or sitting at the outside tables of a café. Life didn't get hard on him except for the time when he had to pay taxes or issues of that sort, being a writer and an observer didn't pay very well; still, he told himself what mattered the most was his happiness, and he was fine just like that.

Then, inevitably, life got complicated.

Autumn was his favourite season, the explosive shades of red and orange that trees displayed made him feel like he were inside a beautiful painting. One particular morning he'd been walking leisurely, looking around carelessly without a single worry on his mind, when a pair of shamrock green eyes met his for a second and then looked away. He only noticed the woman who possessed such gems for eyes when she was walking away from him and he couldn't look at her face any longer. But he could follow her, couldn't he? That was what he did for a living, he'd write about her.

Like a secret agent on a mission, more silent and careful than ever, Diaval kept an eye on her for almost a month. He always sat on a bench near a library and then, exactly at eight o'clock, she would pass by.

Red leaves covered the pavement every single morning, sometimes mixed with yellow ones, but what he desired to see the most were her green eyes. It was then when Diaval thought he wasn't a flâneur anymore, he was on the edge of just being another stalker. For god's sake, he didn't even know her name. Was it possible to be hooked on someone you only knew by sight?

He stopped sitting on that bench and went back to his lonely walks on the mornings, his café afternoons and his writing nights. Most times she filled his mind, and he wrote fiction about her. In his documents he didn't put a name on her, because that would break the spell; he focused on what she'd like to do, what her days could be like or the first thing she would think on the wee hours of the morning.

When winter froze the clouds and the first snowflakes fell, Diaval hardly ever thought of her. She'd been just an infatuation, a platonic one. She wasn't his muse any longer, and perhaps that's why he couldn't write anymore.

The things he used to write about now seemed folly, after he'd seen her he'd become a poet and a poet with no muse was unable to write. The city, the one he'd considered an open book before, now was a prison, a cage he wouldn't get out of; he was growing frustrated and he blamed her. Her, the woman he refused to put a name on, the woman whom he had willingly let go of but also now seemed to be necessary for him to perform tasks he had never needed inspiration to do before ever in his life.

Diaval usually wore a scarf, a long coat and boots when he went out for a morning walk –because he wouldn't give up on that–; he'd buy a cup of coffee on a nearby stand –he hated brewing his own– and walk to a bridge, rest his forearms on the railing and watch the river flow beneath him while snowflakes fell on him. He didn't mind the cold; he just liked to see the water moving before it got frozen. In winter everything died, the city got so blindingly white with snow it bothered him to no end; Diaval missed the days when autumn had been delightful, the days when red, orange and yellow were not overshadowed by the shamrock green of those eyes.

He would take pleasure on whatever that could still please him, if it was drinking coffee whilst watching the river, so be it.

Diaval had been doing just that one extremely cold morning, so cold almost no one dared to go outside, when the silence about him made him able to listen a "click", the kind of click that was only made by a camera. The river beneath him was already frozen when he looked up, then to his left side and found her.

She'd taken a picture of him.

He froze like the water beneath him. Then she approached him and rested her forearms on the snow covered railing, letting her camera rest on it. It was then when he noticed she had it strapped around her torso and that it wouldn't fall.

"You stopped watching me."

So he hadn't been as careful as he had believed himself to be.

"Did it bother you?"

"No."

Diaval sighed.

"Alright."

This time she sighed.

"I like watching people, too."

She turned her head to look at him and Diaval imitated her, once his eyes were fixed on hers he admitted that he'd missed them…

"You watched me too?"

"Yes."

"You took a picture, why?" Diaval didn't know if it was because of the cold weather or because it really happened, but he saw her cheeks turning red. He gave her a soft smile.

"You stopped watching, therefore I did too. I don't know if I'm going to see you again, so a picture couldn't hurt."

Perceptive as he was, Diaval understood that was her way of saying she had also missed him too somehow. He didn't know what she did, what she liked or what she thought in the wee hours of the morning, but he did know this woman had noticed his absence and that it had affected her. To the same degree it affected him? Diaval couldn't know, but it was a pleasant turn of events.

"Flâneuse?" he asked.

She nodded.

"It's just a hobby."

Then she laughed silently and Diaval felt mesmerized by the way her eyes shined.

"I'm Diaval."

"Malena."

There was no going back now.

She had a name he wouldn't ever forget and winter looked a lot more colourful now.


End file.
